For Someone Special
by Soquilii
Summary: Eliot teaches Hardison a few basics about cooking. Dedicated to Rowingmaiden


Based loosely on The French Connection Job

It was Saturday morning. Alec Hardison of hot pocket, orange soda and gummy bear fame was in the kitchen at Leverage, Inc., trying to prepare a romantic breakfast for Parker, who was still asleep upstairs. It wasn't going well.

He'd successfully fried sausage and bacon and prepared toast, all of which was being kept warm in the oven, but the eggs…were baffling. He'd already ruined an entire carton and burned one skillet so bad it had to be thrown out. The exhaust fan over the stove bravely attempted to keep pace with billowing clouds of steam and smoke that were nearly thick enough to emit rain.

On the verge of tears and close to surrender, he looked up as the door opened; Eliot Spencer walked in. After only a few breaths of the smoky air he choked up, coughing and hacking.

"Hardison? What the hell are you doin,' man? It _stinks_ in here!' He walked over to the stove, wide shoulders swirling smoke clouds into mini tornadoes. He surveyed the scene, momentarily speechless. 'What the hell are you tryin' to do?!' He turned off the gas burner, checked the settings on the exhaust, turned it to high and opened the one window over the sink. Grabbing a can of air freshener, he had the air scrubbed and breathable within minutes.

Hardison surrendered his space at the stove and stood aside, contrite.

'Just…trying to make Parker breakfast. In bed.'

'Breakfast in bed? Looks to me like you're tryin' to _kill_ her!'

'Look, man, it's just… last night was… _special_ … just trying to do something for her.'

Eliot took pity on Hardison who was standing there like a scolded child.

'Look, man, you know I like to cook. What say I teach you a few things -'

'Naw, Eliot, you're an actual chef…I'd never be able -'

'Willya let me _finish_ , Hardison?! Just the basics. All you need are just the basics. I mean, it ain't rocket science, man! Jeez, you can move money from the Kremlin to the White House and you can't cook a simple egg?'

'OK… ok… you so smart. Teach me.'

'I _will_. You just do what I tell ya.'

Eliot swiftly cleaned and prepared the area, wiping down the stove, selecting a clean skillet and a slim silicon cooking fork. He got a fresh carton of eggs from the refrigerator and a stick of salted butter.

'First thing is, Hardison, does Parker even _like_ eggs? All I ever see her eating is cereal. She's worse than you about junk food.'

'Yeah. Yeah, she likes eggs. She told me. Fried or scrambled. I was gonna make fried.' He gestured to the pan containing what he had already attempted.

Eliot lifted the teflon skillet filled to the brim with what looked like scorched calf brains and took a whiff. He frowned at Hardison.

 _'This?_ This is _Charbroiled Chicken Eggs_ , Hardison. _Heart Attack Huevos_. _Respect the egg, man!'_

'Ok, _expert_ , how would _you_ make 'em?'

'First,' Eliot said, accurately lobbing the pan containing the scorched eggs over his shoulder and into the trash can, 'let's make scrambled. They're healthier. Now, watch, Hardison.'

Eliot expertly and with one hand, broke six eggs into a shallow bowl.

'Six?'

'If you don't shut up you don't get any, Hardison.'

Hardison held both hands up in a conciliatory gesture to placate the Hitter. 'Awright, awright, then what?'

'Y' _beat_ 'em!' Eliot gruffly handed the bowl and a whisk to the Hacker, who complied. As he beat the eggs, Eliot added salt, pepper and a tablespoon or two of softened butter. 'Briskly, Hardison, whip 'em _briskly_! I wanna see yellow consistency.'

Hardison dutifully worked over the eggs while Eliot set the clean, nonstick skillet on a low flame.

'See that, Hardison? On a gas stove, you can regulate the temperature better. Electric, not so much. You want low heat for eggs, enough to cook but not too fast.'

'Ain't you gonna add milk to this?'

'Naw. Ruins it.'

'My Nana always used a lot of milk.'

'Well, she was feedin' kids and stretchin' the mixture. A little does make for a softer, creamier result. How about some canned cream?'

Hardison nodded.

'Too much milk and you get watery eggs, Hardison.' Eliot poured a teaspoon of canned cream into the bowl; Hardison resumed beating.

'Ok, now pour it into the skillet.'

Hardison complied. A minute went by.

'It ain't cooking.'

'Wait for it.'

Presently, a thin layer of cooked eggs lined the bottom of the pan. 'Ok, take this fork, Hardison. Tease that layer.'

'Te - tease?'

'Lemme show you.' Eliot gently pulled the cooked layer from the sides of the pan to the center, gently swirling it with graceful motions of the fork. As he exposed raw egg to the heated bottom and sides of the pan, it began to solidify. He teased this new layer, again swirling it, exposing more raw egg. He gave the fork to Hardison.

'Try it.'

Hardison soon mastered the technique.

'Now you don't want scrambled eggs to be too dry. They'll continue to cook on the plate, so you have to be able to determine just when they're done enough to remove from the skillet. Keep swirlin' that fork, but gently. Don't let 'em rest against the heat.'

'Hell, Eliot, we been at this for -'

'Hardison, you make something for somebody special, you don't consider how long it takes. It takes as long as it takes. You care about Parker, don't you? Want her to feel special?'

'Yeah…okay… how's this?'

Eliot inspected the pan. 'Looks good. They're done. Wait, lemme get an ice cream scoop.'

Hardison looked at him as if he'd gone daft. 'A - a ice cream… scoop - ?'

' _Presentation_ , Hardison,' he growled.

Eliot expertly scooped a neat mound of yellow, tender eggs onto a plate. He tonged two curled slices of bacon and a sausage patty beside it, arranging them artistically. Swiftly, he flipped a knife, trimmed the crust from two slices of toast, buttered them, added a dollop of apple jelly and a sprig or two of parsley. With a flourish, he handed the plate to Hardison.

'Daaaaamn! Looks like a work of art, man!'

'It's supposed to. You put this on a tray with a flower folded in a napkin, some coffee and juice, and I promise you -'

'Going right now.'

While Hardison was upstairs, Eliot prepared a plate for Hardison and himself. He was seated at the kitchen table, already into his breakfast, when the Hacker came downstairs. The wide grin told Eliot everything he needed to know.

'Try 'em for yourself, Hardison,' Eliot said as he gestured toward the place he had set for his friend.

Hardison sat down at the table and picked up a fork, seemingly reluctant to disturb the artistic arrangement on the plate. It seemed too beautiful to disturb. His stomach growled. That settled it; he forked a generous amount of eggs into his mouth. The expression on his face was priceless as the buttery, tender texture seemed to melt in his mouth.

Nothing pleased Eliot Spencer more than to have someone really appreciate his food. He had traded the difficult and dangerous life he once led working for private military companies for the Leverage team, which had mellowed him to a degree and allowed him some structure in his life. He was still a hitter, but now he had time to devote to a passion instilled in him by Toby Heath, a Belgian chef Eliot was supposed to have eliminated. The man caught and held the young soldier's attention; got him away from the PMCs and the wetwork he did so well and taught him how to cook. Toby Heath had found the key to Eliot Spencer and had unlocked that talent.

'See, Hardison, that's how you show somebody you care about them. Make them something special. What that says is that you consider them special. Shows your love.'

Hardison lowered his eyes. An impish grin spread across his features. Adopting his gay Ebonic persona, he batted his eyelashes at Eliot.

'Do this mean you think _I_ special, Eliot?' he simpered. 'You showin' yo' love for _me_ , man?'

Eliot's eyebrows rushed together. 'Hardison…man…you're gonna go too far one of these days and I'm gonna…'

He slammed one fist into the other in a mock demonstration of violence.

'All I sayin' is that you must feel somethin' f'me and here you been all this time hidin' who you really is. I'm…I'm touched. I'm really…'

Eliot took up his butter knife and waved it menacingly in front of Hardison's nose; the two continued bickering until the delicious breakfast was finished.

The End


End file.
